


Corpus Christi

by Thelittlescrimshaw



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 19:13:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16393544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thelittlescrimshaw/pseuds/Thelittlescrimshaw
Summary: “I never wanted this,” he confesses to her, in a rare moment of peace.  He sounds so young and so lost, that Mallory almost believes him.Almost.“But now,” and his tone is rueful, condescending, “You show up, Mallory. And you make it harder and harder to want the very thing I was made for.”





	Corpus Christi

**Author's Note:**

> First Millory fic! 
> 
> Title means "The Body of Christ." Gratuitous Catholic phrases abound, courtesy of your local ex-Catholic.

**Solemnity**

It’s the second time she’s alone with him - something she’d been avoiding since that fateful meeting, where she saw _ that _ face and made the flames appear. 

He’s lingered in the bunker, sent Venable and Mead scurrying to the corners of the compound; they watch her from the shadows, the gray who has piqued the Cooperative’s interest. When he called her to his chambers this morning, Mallory was dismissed from her chores, scowls and worried looks shot her way in equal measure.

“I never wanted this,” he confesses to her, in a rare moment of peace.  He sounds so young and so lost, that Mallory almost believes him. 

Almost.

“That is, until I did. And now,” and his tone is rueful, condescending, “You show up, Mallory. And you make it harder and harder to want the very thing I was made for.”

He sits across from her now, legs crossed, elbow rested on the arm of the plush, antique armchair, eyes on her – regarding her as if she were a specimen under a microscope.

With a gaze that intense on her, it’s hard not to feel like one. Mallory swallows and forces herself to meet his eyes. “I don’t know what that means.”

He leans forward, the corners of his mouth quirking. Mallory’s hands are clenched in her lap.

“It means,” he murmurs, “That you are the only interesting thing in this fucking hellscape I’ve created.”

He says those words with such conviction and Mallory’s heart is pounding - she hasn’t a single doubt that the man before her had some hand in the fallout. 

He raises his hand as if to cup her face – just as he did at their interview, almost a week ago. Mallory forces herself not to flinch, glances down at her hands in her lap. They’re calloused, dry, worn from the labor and the none-too-gentle cleaning products.

Langdon stops, follows her gaze. Slowly – almost gently – he lowers his hand and traces his finger over the backs of hers. “How often have you thought about slipping the lye into their drinks, I wonder? Coco and Venable and Gallant?”

She shouldn’t be surprised that he can do that – shouldn’t be surprised at anything from Langdon, not after what had happened during their interview – but it was unsettling, to have him pluck her darkest thoughts from the back of her mind and make her face them during the day. “Just thoughts,” she says. “Nothing more.”

“Is that so,” he says, unconvinced. Mallory watches as he takes her hands in his own, turning them over, exposing the callouses on her palms. He  _ tsks. _ “Now that won’t do, will it? Not if you’re coming to my sanctuary.”

He dismisses her – no bursting flames, no white-faced demon this time- but Mallory can’t help but feel that she’s not alone when she undresses and crawls into bed that night.

The next morning, she’s informed that she won’t be needed for her chores for the foreseeable future.

She hates how she can imagine the self-satisfied expression on his face, like a cat toying with a mouse.

**Benediction**

The news that Mallory is no longer a Gray comes from a stiff-mouthed Venable. Langdon is in the background; Mallory meets his too-blue gaze and immediately looks away. She wasn't sure what she's done to garner such attention from him, but she's certain that it's not a good thing. 

No longer saddled with the duties of a Gray, Mallory is left with idle time – much of which is dominated by Langdon.

“I don’t understand,” she says during one of their sessions. “What do want? Haven’t you made your decisions yet?”

His fingertips are steepled together, the onyx ring he wears glinting in the firelight. “I’m in the process of it – and delaying it, largely, to figure out just what you are.”

“What” he said. Not “who.”

**Presentation of the Gifts**

A box had appeared in her room – a private suite now, that she’s no longer a Gray – tied with a ribbon. A dress, so dark a red that it appeared black, with a note requesting her presence at 6 PM, sharp.

Signed “Michael.”

It’s unsettling, using his first name. Humanizing him.

Mallory didn’t like it.

But she has a sense of how to survive - she didn’t last as Coco’s personal assistant all those years by ignoring instructions- so she slipped into the dress and arrived at his quarters at six on the dot.

He answers the door. Mallory is surprised that his room is only slightly larger than the other private bedrooms, no more luxurious than Coco’s. Her eyes flit to the laptop, half-closed on the rich mahogany desk. 

He follows her gaze. “You have a question.” 

She swallows. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

“Why, Mallory,” he said, voice like honey. “I thought we’d get to know each other.”

Mallory shivers, unsure if she wants to know him, almost positive that she knows far, far too much already. “You said you created this. The apocalypse. The nuclear winter. There shouldn’t be an internet connection.”

“So I said.” His voice is like honey. “But come now, you don’t actually believe that, do you? That one man could bring down the entirety of civilization?” 

It might be her imagination, but it seems as if the flames in the fireplace shrink, as if smothered by his aura. He takes a step closer and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, in some mockery of intimacy. He leans forward, whispers, “Or do you know better? You know  _ exactly _ how humanity works. You know how easy it would be to tear it apart. Part of you  _ wishes _ you’d been able to usher in the end times.” 

Mallory jerks away. “Don’t act like you know me.” 

Her anger burns like acid on her tongue as she swallows it, eyes flinty. His gaze hardens, no longer presenting her with a mask of geniality. 

“Perhaps…” he trails a knuckle over her cheek. “You should know yourself first.” His words are clipped. He turns and sits at his desk, his back presented to her as an insult. The dismissal is obvious. 

She hates how he makes her feel like she’s retreating - hates that this man, this  _ thing _ , is playing his own game of cat and mouse with her. 

She wishes she could do something to scare him, to rattle him the way he’s rattled her - 

-as if on command, the flames flare higher in the fireplace as she leaves and slams the door behind her. 

She can’t be certain, but she swear she hears Langdon laugh in her wake. 

**Agnus Dei**

_ Now that, _ Michael thinks to himself,  _ is more like it. _

He got a thrill, edging under her skin, etching cracks in that perfectly sculpted exterior. He wondered how far he could go until she’d break. But if that display is any indicator, she won’t break easily. 

Good. He prefers a challenge, anyway. 

He pulls up her file for the upteenth time, pouring over it. Nothing in it indicates that she has any magical inclination -  _ nothing _ so much as hints that she’s a witch. And yet the surge of power - twice now - is unmistakable. 

And yet…

And yet there is something else - something that he recognizes from deep within his bones. Something impossibly old and impossibly powerful. She’s frustrating and tantalizing in equal measures: her reluctance to join him, how she demurs at his attention, the steel in her spine.  

She reminds him of the Rubik’s cube Ben Harmon had handed him those years ago: a seemingly impossible problem, but all the answers are there if he just knows where to look, how to tweak it. 

How she makes it hard to focus - on the Cooperative, on his  _ purpose. _ Frankly, Michael is bored with it all. Mallory, at the very least, is an interesting diversion.

Sooner or later, he’ll figure out Mallory; sooner or later, he’ll put an end to his fascination, his distraction. 

But in the meantime…

He smiles to himself. 

In the meantime, Michael Langdon will have his fun.

**To Be Continued**


End file.
